


THE LONG JOURNEY HOME

by LaRondine (messier31)



Series: HEARTS OF GOLD [2]
Category: La Fanciulla del West (Puccini)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bechdel test pass? lmao, Blood and Violence, California, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys n Cowboyin, F/M, Fluff, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Operas, Puccini, The Girl of the Golden West, opera fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier31/pseuds/LaRondine
Summary: What might have happened between acts 2 and 3 of La Fanciulla del West- why Johnson came back, and what led him and Minnie leave California. Part two of two.
Relationships: Minnie/Dick Johnson
Series: HEARTS OF GOLD [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743328





	THE LONG JOURNEY HOME

**Author's Note:**

> My love letter to the opera La Fanciulla del West, the Girl of the Golden West. A take on what might have happened between acts 2 and 3. While it's canon compliant with any staging of the opera, settings, characters and descriptions are based on the Metropolitan Opera's 2018 production. Part two of two. Written September 2019-May 2020. I have a sneaking suspicion that some of my formatting got messed up when moving it from Docs to AO3, so apologies.
> 
> As always, to A, and to my Minnies- Ms. Voigt and Ms. Westbroek- thank you for the music.
> 
> xox

_ THE LONG JOURNEY HOME _

_ ~~~ _

  
  


Night descended across the mountains. A sweeping darkness draped the valleys and forests and would soon swallow the entire land, leaving nothing but the inky blackness of night and the ghosts of mountains all around. Clicking, chirping crickets and hooting owls sang alongside the quiet crackle of a fire and the gentle breaths of a horse. 

Sparks floated into the ever-reaching blackness, dancing up and vanishing into nothingness amongst the tall trees. From the glow of the small fire, the little camp was thrown into flickering golden-red light and shadow; he watched the shifting flames. He thought of her. 

They’d be coming by the next sunrise, he was certain, coming to retrieve him. At his request, a rendezvous had been arranged, though it was his worst fear, everything he’d dreaded and sought to avoid. But he could deny the past no longer. 

He watched the dying fire until he could no longer, falling into an uneasy sleep under the arching backbone of stars above. 

The jingle of spurs and saddles and the beat of hooves on the path woke him from his restless slumber; the sounds were incongruous with both her cabin and the Polka, instead taking him back to a time of darkness, of chaos, of lies and deceit. In this way, he knew it was time to leave. 

They'd come before dawn, as he knew they would. Four rough, worn men— two young men he’d never seen before, who looked at him with curious and judging eyes— and two men who refused to meet his gaze, old friends turned something strange and grey. 

White rainclouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the snow capped peaks and giving the illusion that the mountains seemed to rise forever into the heavens, looming over them as he packed his saddlebags without a word. Something unspoken had passed between the five of them as they’d met once more, a silent surrender on Johnson’s part. He was here only to do what was necessary, as were they. Nonetheless, a certain sense of dread fluttered low in his throat as he mounted his horse, a man on each side of him, like the escorts of a king— or his executioners. By the time the sun broke over the mountain peaks, he was long gone from the Sierras, riding south to meet his fate. 

~~~

It was, altogether, a stunningly beautiful day. The California sun was high and bright over the mountains, and she could feel its warmth on her cheeks as she rode faster and faster; her mare’s legs seemed to disappear, turning into wings that took her soaring into the clear mountain skies, higher and higher, until she could go no farther.

She passed through the treeline and came to a stop atop a granite bluff hanging over the valley. Breathless, she pulled her horse to a trot, her heart pounding. Yet she felt strangely alive, perhaps happier than she had been in days, as she stood on the high bluff, the wind tangling in her golden-blonde hair and the sun on her face. 

Far below, the town seemed so small.  _ But oh, how much it’s grown _ , she mused, surveying the valley below with a keen eye. Yes, change had come so quickly, the oncoming spring bringing newness in many ways. The mines had been prosperous, and there were more rumors than ever of the wealth of gold that lay beneath their feet. There were new faces, every day, each blurring and blending into the next as miners poured into the camps around the town and the mountains towering over them. The streams grew muddy with silt, and the air smelled of cooking food and smoke. Each day, it seemed, the ineffable promise of gold grew ever-nearer.

There was a sense of unrest, too, a sense of something uneasy and new in the air that she’d never felt before. Though the Polka was gay and crowded each night, she’d felt a sense of disconnect from it all, as though something crucial and profound was suddenly missing from her very being. 

The men had found out, of course, as she knew they would. There was no point in hiding it, no trying to conceal it. Once Johnson had left, the entire fragile story had come undone, all borne painfully into the open air- the bandits’ return, the fire, and Johnson’s painful, final choice. Such an uproar had occurred— yells, shouting, disbelief— that she’d had no choice but to fire her rifle, the ear-splitting crack rattling though the rafters of the Polka and bringing silence and order once more. There had been sympathy, anger, fear, grief— each man a caricature of her own tumultuous emotions— and though they pressed her for details, she had none to offer. It was at once that simple, and yet more complex than she could even begin to explain. 

But could you ever explain the affairs of a heart? Some days she was convinced he was just around every corner; other days, she was filled with despair, believing he would never return. But he had promised— _ I swear it on my life, I will come back _ — and she trusted none more than she trusted him. If he said he would come back, then she believed it without hesitation. 

The tears of that terrible first night had passed. She’d run to Verity sobbing and upset, the second time in days, but this time without him by her side. Verity, without hesitation or question, had taken Minnie under her wing. She’d been there, a mother, a sister, and a desperately-needed friend, and had listened with deep sympathy as the whole story had poured out from the very beginning, all the way back to that dusty road from Monterey. She’d hummed and pulled Minnie closer into her soft arms, rocking her like a child until the tears came no more. Much to Verity’s delight, Minnie had graciously accepted a bed under her roof, a warm meal, and a good night’s rest, which Verity had assured her were one of the only known cures for a lovesick heart.

Indeed, when Minnie woke the next morning, strangely, amazingly, her heart had settled. Even before opening her eyes, the chipper sounds of a rooster, the smell of country ham frying, and passing voices and laughter set her at ease. She sat up, a handmade quilt pooling around her waist, and found not Johnson’s warm smile and the smell of coffee, but a small, clean room in Nick and Verity’s house. It radiated comfort and domestic bliss. And so, tying her golden hair back, she timidly emerged to join the family for breakfast that morning, and the next morning, and the next. 

It was curious to wake each day without him, strange and yet not. She had lived so long by herself on that mountain that one day more was of little consequence; yet still she’d find her mind wandering to him, yearning to hear his voice, to have him in her arms, to feel his touch once more. She would find herself absentmindedly cleaning his gun, nimble fingers taking apart and replacing each pin, spring and bolt as she remembered their time together. His parting words were buried in her heart, repeated like a prayer, a promise, an oath-  _ he would come back. He would come back. He would come back. _

~~~

They rode for days, stopping to camp each night along the trail. He’d watched as the cool, rustic pines and soaring, sparkling peaks of the Sierras slowly melted into the dry, shimmering deserts of the Southwest. Arroyos, gorges, and scrubby desert flowers filled his vision once more, stretching into eternity under a milky-blue sky; near the horizon, flickering ghosts of mirages hung hazily before the distant, rolling mountains. 

Sometimes he was certain he could hear thunder rolling under his feet, bringing the promise of rain. But there was nothing, only dry wind blowing over the earth. The horses whinnied and nickered, sending whiptails and anole lizards skittering into the rocks and brush with each step forward. Dust swept up by the horses’ hooves clung to everything, especially the sweat on his brow, leaving stark lines across his face when he removed his kerchief from his mouth. 

Each night, the skies were breathtakingly clear compared to the Sierras; he could see nearly every star under the moonless sky.  _ They don’t call them the Cloudy Mountains for nothing, it seems.  _ But the desert was harsh and unforgiving, and though he supposed the mountains were, too, in their own way, he longed to be back just the same.

Five nights passed, nearly a week of achingly slow travel, swatting at sand flies and brushing sweat off the back of his burning neck. The men spoke sparingly, and rarely to him, except for short, direct orders. Though he’d had no expectations of being welcomed back with open arms— he  _ was _ a traitor, whether he liked it or not— he at least hoped he could do his business quickly and leave as suddenly as he came. He had no gun, no weapons, nowhere to run to. Just the vast, unending land before him. 

It was noon on the sixth day when the man in front spoke once more. Johnson had known him before he had even known about the gang, for they had grown up together. Diego was his name, Diego Riley, a  _ mestizo _ : white father, Mexican mother, and no place with either. He’d been in the gang longer than Johnson, had been like an older brother to Johnson as a child, for Johnson’s father had taken him under his wing, just as he had many others. 

Riley was the leader of the little group; abruptly, he halted his horse and signalled for the others to do the same. In the distance, Johnson’s eyes could just barely detect a cluster of small, low buildings, nearly invisibly in the shimmering heat of the day and against the backdrop of the remote, dark mountains. Squinting, he could see faint, smudgy campfire smoke, horses pinned along a low wall, and tiny figures moving.

“Wait here,” ordered Riley in gruff, gravelly Spanish, before riding towards the camp on the horizon. Johnson followed the retreating figure warily as he was swallowed into the desert. 

Time ticked slowly by. The sun was hot and relentless, hanging high in the sky, and salty sweat stung in the corners of his eyes. Around him, the men muttered to each other in rapid, low Spanish, whispering and watching him warily with tense, sideways glances. The effect was strangely unnerving, and he turned away, looking instead towards whatever waited for him at the camp. 

Eventually Riley’s figure slowly resolved itself as he emerged and approached the group again. Once close enough, he gave a short nod, and the party moved forward once more towards the camp. 

Once more Johnson had the terrible feeling of a man being led to his execution. In the buzzing silence of the desert, the steady staccato of hooves on the dry ground became the roll of a drum, a steady cadence carrying him forward to his doom. 

Death mattered little to him, he decided. He only thought of her, and prayed she would forgive him.

Every bone in his body resisted being here, every instinct telling him to turn back. But it was far too late to turn back now, for they were approaching the camp, the strange little town, and Riley signalled for them to halt again. The men each dismounted their horses, and after a curt nod from Riley, Johnson followed suit. He patted the flank of his horse and turned around. 

Riley clicked his tongue twice, quickly, and gestured at him. 

Confusion stirred in his mind, if only briefly, for he turned around and found himself staring down the gleaming barrel of a revolver.

~~~

Rance was back at his dirty game again. 

Apparently deciding his self-imposed exile from the Polka had ended with Johnson’s departure, he’d been at the bar every night since. Under the guise of helping Minnie, he’d talked grandly of justice while hatred and lust burned in the back of his dark eyes, his smugness just barely masked by a thin veneer of concern. But this time, he had gone too far. 

She’d arrived late to the Polka again, having ridden to a nearby town that afternoon for stamps and a bolt of fabric. As she hitched her horse, she paused, surprised to hear the unmistakable cadences of his booming voice echoing through the night air. 

She stepped onto the porch and pressed herself against the timbers to listen, daring to peek through a window to see. 

“Look how he hurt her, look what he did to her,” he urged, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table before him. “Are you  _ cowards _ ? Would you let one of your own treat her like that?”

The men hollered and pounded their fists and glasses. 

“Are you going to stand down to the man who caused the fire and then abandoned her?” 

The yells turned to shouts. 

“No!” “Bastard!” “He’s a  _ dog _ !”

A chill ran through Minnie’s heart. How strange it was to see their loyalty, years of friendship and trust, turned against her under the mask of good intentions and justice. 

Through the window, she watched Rance raise his hands, commanding silence from the men once more. A dangerous edge crept into his voice.

“You all know as well as I what must happen next. The bandit must be stopped! Justice—” his words were ragged and harsh now, nearly screamed— “Justice will be served!”

_ That was enough _ . She burst through the doors.

Dozens of penetrating, surprised eyes turned on her, and uncomfortable silence flooded the room. Though her heart still pounded with anger, an embarrassed blush quickly crept up her cheeks, her face reddening and confidence fading. But no- these were her friends, her brothers, her Polka. Rance would not take that away from her too. 

“Hello, boys,” she said awkwardly after a moment, her tone a mangled mess of hurt and bravado. To her satisfaction, there was a chorus of rightfully-abashed ‘ _ Hello, Minnies _ ’ muttered back, and many of the men turned back to whatever they were doing before Rance had captured their attention. 

In the center of the room, Rance put his hands down, a momentary look of guilt flashing across his face. He stepped away from the table and put his arms behind his back, casually surveying the room, not meeting her eyes. Yet as she marched up to him, his demeanor changed instantly to the obstinate attitude of a sulky, spoiled child with a hand caught in the sugar jar. 

“You go too far, Rance!” she hissed, her voice low and tight. 

He opened his mouth to answer, grasping her hand in his own. Quicker than he could react, Minnie wrenched her hand free. 

“Come outside with me. Now.” Her tone was stony and sharp, as one would reprimand a disobedient dog. She was done playing this game— enough was enough.

She turned on her heel and strode back out onto the porch, Rance following closely behind her. 

“How  _ dare _ you, Jack!” she spat once they were outside, hoping he could see her angry glare in the dimming evening light. “How could you say such things?”

“Remember your place, Minnie! And remember mine— I am the sheriff here, and the law cares so little about love.” He spoke coolly, but the stern tone of his voice made it clear that he wasn’t playing games either. His threats carried intent, and the thought chilled her to the bone. 

“I should have hung that bastard Ramerrez when I had him between my hands,” he continued, more to himself than to Minnie. At his side, his fists clenched and unclenched in the low light. 

“Have you no honor?" she interrupted. "We had an agreement, Rance! I won, and you swore to leave him be! You gave me your word!”

He looked up. Instead of responding to her question, he cocked his head craftily and instead said, “After all he did, Minnie, you of all people should want to see him hung.” He nodded and continued. “You speak of  _ my  _ honor?  _ He _ has none. He lied to you and continues to do so still. He left you with nothing—  _ nothing!— _ and still, you claim to love him. And he will never return, can’t you see? You mean nothing to him now.”

“Rance, stop!” she cried. “He  _ will  _ come back. He loves me. And I love him!” 

“Oh, yes, you love him,” he smirked, “you love him. And will you love him still when he rides with his loyal gang once more? Will you love him still when his face watches you from every wanted poster in the Sierras? Will you love him still when he is back in the arms of that Micheltorena? Will you love him still when he dies like a dog, swinging from a noose or shot through with bullets, left to rot in the dirt like the common thief that he is?”

His words paralyzed her, newfound doubt running through her veins. 

“I didn’t think so.” He gave a final, venomous laugh before turning away. “Goodnight, Minnie. Soon you’ll see.” 

He stepped back through the twin doors of the Polka and left her staring into the empty night. 

Her heart pounded, her pulse fluttering with anger and shock and hurt. She had never, ever imagined things would get so hopelessly out of control, all turned upside down and backwards. Without thinking, she found herself swinging back into her saddle, feet sliding into stirrups, reins gripped in her palms, heels digging into her pony’s sides. Tears of anger and frustration streaked down her cheeks, cool in the night air, as she spurred her horse into motion.

Noise behind her— doors, voices— Nick, yelling for her to come back. Yelling angrily at Rance, though growing ever-fainter. She didn’t care to listen, didn’t want to listen, only hearing hoofbeats and the sound of her own ragged breaths, loud against the peaceful dark. 

She rode without a plan, without a destination, only a stormy sea of emotion in her mind. The canter of her horse drove a steady rhythm through her body, her chest tight with frustration and hurt.

Her legs tensed automatically as the path swept upwards out of town, the cool air of the forest kissing her flushed cheeks, the fragrance of pine rich and comforting. Yes, this was familiar now, it was all coming back to her. He would be waiting up for her as he always did. Perhaps she would read after their dinner, or perhaps he would play his guitar. Perhaps they would dance, and everything would be alright—

The tall points of the pines gave way to a clearing, and the charred remains of her home loomed before her. 

Blackened wood met silvery-white moonlight. It was tempting to believe that it was just a discarded photograph of a different cabin on a mountain that was not her own, that her own cabin was still out there, that he waited for her in the golden candlelight inside, that everything was as it should have been. Tender vines of morning glory twisted their stems up the bare trunks of the timbers, spade-shaped leaves shivering in the pale moonlight. In the charred, warped rafters, twin eyes glowed: a watchful owl peering down at her.

Dismounting, she smiled mournfully at her loyal mare. The innocent animal had brought her home, as it had done so many times before. 

She looked out now into the night, spying the weak sickle of the young moon. The night air was cold against her flushed skin as she sat in the ruins of a home that was home no more, and the stars were distant and uncaring. 

~~~

They waited. 

They’d waited as the sun dipped lower in the sky, glowing blood red before dipping behind distant, dark hills. 

They’d waited as bats fluttered through the low, sweet twilight and out beyond the horizon. 

Lanterns were lit in the dusty courtyard of the old Spanish hacienda, and the sounds of the desert night settled in their ears. Still they waited. The temptation to ask what exactly they waited for itched in his throat, but the barrel pressed leisurely against the back of his skull kept him silent and subdued. 

They waited as the pale spring moon rose in the night air, hanging lazily over the ceramic-tiled roofs, slender and golden-white in the desert haze. He hoped somewhere, far away in the beautiful Sierras, Minnie watched the same moon as him. 

He closed his eyes not to rest, but to allow himself to escape, if only for a moment. And so he wandered through his memories, his heart aching for what he had lost, yearning for what he could not have. He had decided when he had left the Polka that he would only return as a free man, knowing he would sooner die than condemn her to a life of fear and persecution at his side. She deserved better. 

A shuffle of footsteps somewhere close— he opened his eyes. Still watching the cracked tiles lining the courtyard, he waited with bated breath, not yet daring to look up. Some unspoken discussion seemed to pass between the men around him and the newcomer, and he felt the muzzle of the gun release from his neck. 

Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him to standing; his head spun, sparks dancing before his eyes, and he was pulled forward into the bright room.

Inside, there were at least a dozen other men, sitting along a long table; they looked up curiously and murmured as he was pulled past. 

At the end of the table sat a younger man. Though darkly handsome, his features were rough and arrogant; he’d stood leisurely when Johnson entered and stepped forward now, as the men on each of Johnson’s arms released him. They stood several paces apart, eyeing each other solemnly. 

Quicker than Johnson could blink, the man whipped out a gun, levelling it with his forehead. 

The click of the hammer as he cocked the gun was quiet, but it drew complete, resounding silence from everyone in the room. Murmurs and conversations ceased in a wave, from the tables nearest them to the furthest corners. Only the songs of spring bugs and the faraway barking of dogs echoed through the stillness. None wanted to see the gun turned on him, but everyone wanted a show. 

The man’s finger rested on the trigger. A single motion, a passing whim, and Johnson would fall, like a puppet with his strings snipped, his body to be dumped in some distant gorge, never to be seen again. He would never see her again. He would never see her again. He would never—

_ I promised myself I would never again be afraid for my own life _ , her voice echoed in his head.  _ Out here we do what we must to survive. _

He swallowed, his mouth dry and his throat tight with bitter fear. The other man regarded him coolly, but his arm relaxed nearly imperceptibly, his finger easing off the trigger, though he still aimed the gun squarely at Johnson.

“You were so foolish to come back here, Ramerrez,” the man drawled in Spanish after a moment, his cold, crooked smile not quite meeting his eyes. “Do you expect forgiveness? A warm reception? The prodigal son returns, yes, but there is nothing here for you anymore. Nothing, of course, except…” He gestured with his revolver before pointing it back at Johnson, the rest of his sentence not needing words. He smiled then, a terrifying grin. But Johnson did not react, though his heart raced; he was here for one reason and one reason only. And so, for Minnie, he took a breath and responded calmly, 

“I am not here to stay. I only seek counsel with my brother. Bring me to him and I will trouble you no more.” 

The man laughed, and hot irritation ran up Johnson’s spine.  _ He was not to be made a fool of. _

“Oh, Ramerrez, how things have changed. In the months you spent with that— that  _ girl _ — the world did not falter at your disloyalty. Are you losing your touch, old man?”

Johnson cocked an eyebrow. “My brother?” he repeated patiently. He would not fall victim to these silly games, these immature taunts.

Again, the man gave the same sharp smile, his black eyes glittering in the bright lantern-light. “We’ll say he’s…  _ indisposed _ at the moment. You will speak with me.” His eyes darted up to Johnson’s face, watching, waiting, testing. 

"Fine." He shifted on his feet “And you are—?"

Brief, childish anger flickered through the man’s eyes, though the rest of his face revealed little. 

“Vasquez,” the man spat, as though it was an insult to his very name to tell Johnson so. That break, however subtle, re-ignited Johnson’s confidence. Yes, it seemed Vasquez could be dangerous, cocky and quick-to-anger as he was. But he was young, so far all bark and no bite, and his arrogance was a weakness that Johnson could use. 

“Alright, Vasquez,” he said after a moment, “you must wonder what’s brought me back. Perhaps you’ve speculated that I’ve come to challenge you to regain my position, and retake the gang and all of its gold and glory.” He paused. “I want no such thing.”

Vasquez blinked in surprise, and Johnson, despite his nervousness, repressed a small smile. Ah, he had the upper hand now. 

“In fact,” he continued, “I want the exact opposite. My path is not with you anymore. That much is clear to both of us. But you have persecuted me and the woman I love, and so I come to you with a message. I will only say it once—  _ this will not stand _ . I want nothing more than to wash my hands of the past and leave behind the night, unafraid of further retaliation or fear.” His mouth was suddenly cottony and dry, but he continued nonetheless. “I seek only freedom, freedom to live the life I have chosen.”

That dark, cunning look was back in Vasquez’s eye again. “Freedom,” he muttered, almost to himself. “He wants his freedom!” he yelled suddenly, flecks of spit flying from his mouth in his sudden rage. 

“Men, do you hear that? The traitor wants his freedom!” He gestured widely, and the men began to yell in response. “Should we give it to him? Should we reward his betrayal with his life?” 

After a moment, he held up a hand for silence, and the shouting muttered to a stop. 

“You ask for your freedom. Here is exactly what I have to say to  _ that _ .” Looking Johnson squarely in the eye, he continued, each and every word dripping with hatred.

“You are a traitor of the worst kind. You vanished, and we thought you dead, an honorable death. But instead, you abandoned your family, your duty, your very honor, just to chase some American whore from a miners’ camp. However…" he said, and paused as he breathed through gritted teeth before continuing. 

"You carry the blood of the great Ramerrez in your veins. Though you are an honorless man, you can never change your fate— who you truly are— your destiny! You will always,  _ always _ , be one of us, tied forever to your family and this gang. So here you are, at my feet like a dog, where you deserve to be. You are the lowest of the low, begging to be released from a burden you are too weak to bear, begging for the mercy of a thief. To that, I have only one answer— ”

He raised the gun again, and Johnson could no longer contain the emotion on his face. A yell built up in his throat, fear and anger overwhelming him, as the man cocked the gun once more and centered it at his heart. 

The men around him shouted in surprise, the tension in the room snapping and spilling out all at once. Over the noise, he heard a shout— 

“Vasquez! Vasquez! That is more than enough from you. Do you even hear yourself? ‘At your feet like a dog, where he deserves to be’, really. My God. If your ego was any larger— ” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Linares!” Vasquez yelled back. With a frustrated groan, he fired his gun upwards at the ceiling above their heads. The loud crack left Johnson’s ears ringing painfully and plaster and ceramic tile dusting his hair like snowflakes. 

The man called Linares watched dryly before retorting, “Well, look what you’ve done, you idiot. Now there’s a hole in the roof.” Shaking his head, he muttered insults under his breath,  _ cabrón, reina del drama, imbécil.  _ Scatters of laughter broke out amongst the men; finally, finally the tension seemed to wane, the other men teasing Vasquez and playfully punching his arms and chest until he sullenly swatted them away. Oh-so-hesitantly, Johnson stepped back, rolling his stiff shoulders. Though he felt curious and watchful eyes on his back, there was at least no longer a gun to his head. Linares stepped away, momentarily swallowed into the crowd once more. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Riley, but the man who was once an old friend now turned away.

His head ached with a million thoughts, a million hopes and fears. Familiar faces swam by, each vague in his memory, and though he searched for a glimmer of recognition, there was none. He had been away from the gang for nearly as long as he’d been the leader, half a year, and it seemed so strange to be back once more, to walk amongst these rough men, each so like him and yet worlds different. They watched him with fear, with admiration, with curiosity, a million beetle-black eyes glittering at him from around the room, intense and unreadable.  _ Had any of them been the faceless, nameless men who had attacked them on the mountain? _

In the corner across from him, he spotted Linares and Vasquez, their heads bent together in low discussion. There seemed to be some disagreement passing between them- he watched as Vasquez shook his head and Linares put his hands on the table in frustration before walking away.

After a minute, Linares appeared by Johnson’s side. “It’s late. You must have traveled for quite some time over these past few days. In the room adjacent to this, you’ll find a cot; your horse has been taken care of.” Though there was still coolness in his tone, a careful, polite aloofness, Johnson was warmed by the small show of respect nonetheless. Or at least, if nothing else, begrudging kindness. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, nodding. 

“We’ll talk more in the morning, Ramerrez.”

For a moment, words rose to the tip of his tongue- that that man was dead, that he was not Ramerrez anymore. Instead, he swallowed and nodded, saying nothing. 

He sat by himself now, waiting for them to leave before he bedded down. From a quiet corner he watched as the men laughed and chatted amongst themselves, just as he once had as a bandit himself, just as he once had at the Polka with the miners. As the night grew later, they shuffled out in twos and threes, back into the warm embrace of the desert night. Voices and laughter, shouts and footsteps, grew quiet in the still air. 

Out of the high, boxy windows, he saw now that the moon hung high in the sky, brilliant light bleeding through the thick glass and betraying the lateness of the night. She was asleep by now. The thought brought a small smile to his tired face. Yes, she was safe, or at least he knew that she could protect herself from anything that came her way. He thought of the moonlight on her hair as she slept, gold and silver. 

He rested his head against the wall, fatigue weighing on him. The final handful of men were beginning to shuffle out, save Linares. Outside the doorway, a new man appeared, though Johnson could not pick out any more than his silhouette. He did not enter, but instead sat just outside the threshold: a guard. 

He watched the man intently, unsure how to react. 

A hand on his arm— he jumped back suddenly, surprised, tension coiling in all of his muscles. He turned and found himself face-to-face with Linares. 

“Shh-” he hissed. After a quick glance around, he leaned in to Johnson, speaking in a low tone. 

“Your brother is fine,” he muttered, and Johnson looked up with wonder and relief before leaning closer to hear. “He and several others have gone north to the gold, just as you did.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” Johnson whispered back, grasping Linares’s arm in gratitude. 

“Linares,” he added as an afterthought. “I really do just want to get out... my life here was no life at all.” 

Linares nodded in silent acknowledgement; for a moment, Johnson thought he meant to say more, but he only nodded his head again before stepping out into the night. 

~~~

Rance met her the next afternoon after Mass, bashfully muttering an apology for his ’harsh words’ the previous night. A distracted response slipped through her lips before she could stop herself, and he’d seemed satisfied and walked away at ease. But in her heart, the seeds of doubt had been sown, and they sprouted ugly, black roots, filling her mind with fear and uncertainty.

Tucked into the waist of her skirt, Johnson’s gun was no longer a token of him, a promise that he would come home. Instead, it burned into her hip, a constant reminder of the peril he was in. It was as though a blindfold had been pulled from her eyes, and blinding sunlight poured in now— he was alone, surrounded by enemies, men who wanted nothing more than him dead. He had no guns, no allies, nothing in the world but her. 

Spring had come that afternoon with a gust of wind, ushering out the long, frosty winter. A song of brisk thunder rolled through the air, low and rich, and staccatos of lightning crackled against the rain. From the Polka, she watched as shimmering waves of rain fell across the town. Winds whipped the distant pines, sending the mighty trees back and forth, their massive forms occasionally silhouetted by infinitely fast flashes of lightning. 

She tried to believe. She wanted to believe that he would always come back, back her arms once more— she imagined touching his face, her delicate hands fixing his always-rumpled collar. Clinging to the memories of the past months, she searched for answers, trying to find resolution for the turmoil deep within her. Yet Rance’s words hung in her mind, lingering in the corners of her consciousness, never quite leaving. From that curse, terrible new fears arose.  _ He would ride with the gang once more… Nina would finally have him… he would be persecuted, a criminal, a sinner… and he would die, alone and disgraced, so far from her… _

Even now, her Bible and schoolbooks in hand, she found that fear wrapped around her heart like a fist. The Academy these days seemed fuller than ever, with fresh faces every week. She’d taught them all the messages of God’s love and power, of His eternal forgiveness, that any sinner in the world could find salvation and peace through Him. And still, she found her own faith pulled thinner than she’d ever thought possible— found herself doubting everything for the very first time. Surely Johnson would return. Surely He would deliver him back to her safe and alive.  _ But what if...?  _

The tempo of the thunder quickened, lightning sending stars into her eyes, and sheets of rain lashed against the panels of glass protecting her from the storm outside. _She hated him_ , she thought in a sudden fit of emotion— for being so foolish, for leaving, for risking himself once more— but just as quickly, the anger and grief disappeared, and she could not find it within herself to hate him. Just as she had opened her door for him once before, she knew that the love in her heart would always welcome him home.

And so she steeled herself, willing her worries to the side, finding a newfound resolution within her soul. With that, she clapped, bringing the attention of the boys in the Polka to her. 

“Boys, take a seat, please,” she started, pausing to allow the rumble of chairs on the wooden floor and the excited babble of voices to draw to a stop. 

Looking at their earnest, eager faces, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Even if the rest of the world felt wrong, even if she doubted all else, she knew her place here. Here, she would always have a family.

The men grabbed slates and slivers of chalk, and Minnie started first with writing. She showed, slowly and with great patience, how to hold the chalk— how to form letters— how to string together words into phrases, phrases into sentences, sentences into stories. For some time there was quiet, with only the sounds of the gentle creaking of her rocking chair, the soft rustling of fabric, and a scratching of chalk on slate. Occasionally a whisper would float through the air, carried on a gentle breeze from the mouth of a miner as he concentrated on the words before him. She made a slow circle through the loose cluster of tables and chairs, pointing out backwards R’s and dotless i’s and correcting misspelt words, each time earning an eager nod and a beaming smile from the man in front of her. 

Satisfied, she sank back into her rocking chair. Bringing out her Bible, she traced her fingers along the soft, worn paper until she reached the ribbon bookmark and flipped the book open. It had been one of the precious few books at the Polka when her cabin had burned, and so it had escaped the flames unscathed. She considered it more valuable than its weight in gold. 

There was a momentary shuffle as the men, too, exchanged their slates for Bibles. They had just begun the Book of Proverbs again. She’d taught it several times in the past years, finding it both easy to understand and teach, as well as rather moralistic. 

The men took turns reading, peering over each others’ shoulders, the more seasoned and educated of the bunch helping the less well-read ones sound out words. When each man had taken his turn reading a line, Minnie found herself reading again, her voice echoing through the quiet hall, the men clinging to her every word. Even Nick paused, listening from the back of the bar as she read.

“ _ My son, do not forget my teaching, but keep my commands in your heart, for they will prolong your life many years and bring you prosperity _ .” She paused, as she always did, to explain. 

“Sam,” she started, smiling at a young man to her left, “Do you know who Solomon is speaking to here?” He blushed and nodded, then shook his head quickly after. She laughed lightly. “It’s okay, Sam. He’s talking to his son, telling him never to forget God’s word.”

She continued. “ _ Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man _ . It says here, now, that should we keep trust and love— for ourselves, for our neighbors, and for God— in our hearts and on our minds, we do as He wishes. Through mercy, and love, and forgiveness, we can all find peace and salvation.” Again, she scanned the group, pleased to see the men taking in her every word. 

Her eyes fell back to the page, and she couldn’t help but to smile, even as sudden tears welled in her eyes, emotion filling her heart. 

“ _ Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight _ .”

She took a breath, and another, before continuing hesitantly, her mind suddenly light, as though a dark cloth had been lifted from around her soul, a darkness she had been unable to pierce before. “Oh, boys, this is a wonderful promise: the Lord promises that should you trust him, he will care for you. Can you understand? Things in the world might seem so strange, so uncertain, but God will always be there to guide you. Give him your heart and he’ll... he’ll set things right for you.” 

With that, she shut her Bible, trying to conceal her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. It could not have been a coincidence. Surely not. To find the answers she’d sought, the moment when her faith was at its weakest— surely it was not a coincidence. Her own heart pounded with joy and relief as she smiled widely at the miners, perhaps for the first time in weeks. It was as though something within her that had once been broken had finally mended; imperfectly, perhaps, and with chips and cracks, but still whole once more. And that was what mattered. 

“Very good job today, boys,” she said, trying to hold back the emotion in her voice as she dismissed them. The sun was setting, slipping beneath the passing clouds and pouring through the windows of the Polka with a faint but determined gold shine. He would come back to her. She needed only to trust that he would come back, that God would provide all she needed.  _ Thank you, thank you, thank you _ . 

~~~

The days passed quickly, like cards shuffled in the hands of a skilled gambler— faces, people, allies and enemies old and new— each man playing his own game, and him, always on the defensive, always seeming to draw the short straw. 

It seemed that, in whatever strange fissure that’d split the gang, many of the men he’d known—  _ his _ men— had stayed loyal to his brother and gone North. Only a few men he recognized remained, a few weary, hard faces. He sat now in a lantern-lit room, Vasquez and Linares arguing over his head once more, the same arguments they’d been having for days now. His arrival had apparently lit the fuse on their long-running dislike, and it seemed they scarcely could be in the same room without breaking out into a raging argument. 

He only wanted to go back to her— to go home. 

_ Home. _ He’d never before had such a strong sense of it; as a child, he’d lived with no home but the road. His home now was with her. 

They continued arguing over his head, insults flying faster, and he found himself drifting away, out the door, down a dusty path to a dying campfire, nobody bothering to stop him. His feet stopped, his heart flying away, away, away, over deserts and hills and soaring up into the mountains— 

And there it stayed, with her. His hollow eyes watched the amber flames before him, aching for the strings of a guitar under his fingers, for the laughter of his brothers, or for one of her camp songs— anything but where he was now. 

A moment later, quiet footsteps and the sound of loose dirt on the path behind him turned Johnson's head. The shadowed form of Linares solidified, glowing red in the dim firelight.

“Ramerrez,” he said quietly in greeting. “Mind if I—?”

Johnson shook his head. “No, not at all,” he replied, starting to stand up. “In fact I was just leaving. Goodnight.”

“Wait— Ramerrez—  _ Johnson— _ stay. I want to talk.”

He stopped mid-step, blood running cold. _ They knew _ , he thought in surprise, but of course they did. They’d known everything, from his name to where to find him on that remote mountain she’d called home. But of course. 

Johnson turned to face him hesitantly; Linares’s face was indecipherable and eerie in the firelight. 

“Sit. Please,” he added, softening his tone. Warily, Johnson did as told. The gun missing from his hip ached like a severed limb, as if a part of his own body had been taken. In leaving his gun with her, he’d sworn nonviolence; even as Ramerrez, he’d never been one to shoot first, certainly never one to kill. But still, he found himself yearning for the security of the walnut grip in his palm, the only certainty one could rely on in the West. What sort of a man was this Linares, this strange, tall man with the crooked, boyish smile, who had supported him without question? Who had countered Vasquez, time and time again, nearly to blows, for him? 

“Johnson…” The name hung in the air, strange and foreign, a name from another place, another life. “Can I ask of you one thing?” 

He looked up; at his side, he could feel his fingers trembling. He balled his fist. “What?”

Linares smiled. “Tell me about her.”

His blood turned to ice once more, frozen and stagnant, his breath stolen by shock and panic. It had all been for naught, for she was still a target— he had marked her, stained her, condemned her forever.  _ Tell me about her so we can be sure we finish the job we started. Tell me about her and watch your girl of gold turn red, red, red, and watch while we laugh as the traitor finally gets what he deserves... _

The other man must have sensed his anxieties, for he added a moment later, “On my honor, I promise there’ll be no retaliation against her or anyone else. And don’t worry about Vasquez. He talks big, but—” he paused, choosing his next words carefully— “I’ll take care of him, should it come to that.” 

“Why? Why do you do this, all of this, for me?” The words he had kept buried for days finally spilled into the waiting night air. “You know, Linares, that I’m desperate, desperate to trust you, desperate for any allies I can get— but tell me  _ why,  _ please. Because I just— I can’t—”

Linares was quiet; he watched the golden-red flames, and his eyes reflected them back at Johnson, peaceful contemplation on his face. At last, he smiled mournfully.

“I have a girl, too, a beautiful girl back home. the greatest mistake of my entire life was leaving her for this. If you can get out— if you can— then maybe,  _ maybe _ I can as well. You are not alone in your fight here.”

The fire snapped and whispered, telling its own secrets into the listening night. Johnson nodded slowly, a smile warming his face for the first time in days.

“It was on the road back from Monterey, when the jasmine was just beginning to bloom...”

~~~

Early morning spilled across the camp; the weather was pleasant and light, the air sweet and fresh. She dressed quickly on seeing the golden daylight spilling through her window and made her way to the door of Nick’s house, Verity just behind her. The two women took their usual spots on the cozy, open porch. Sitting in the warm sun, she found herself daydreaming, the golden light lending itself to her heart’s longings. Back on the long road from Monterey, when the sweet wildflowers were blooming— their first embrace. And their last embrace, the warm scratch of his stubble, rough against her smooth cheek— she remembered the tears streaming down her face as she watched him leave, and the burning golden-red light of the setting sun, and the first time she’d ever felt the world was truly broken. It seemed so long ago, the pain already diminishing with time, the memories taking on the soft glows of a dream. 

Now, she could feel something strange and new blossoming inside her soul, a restlessness she had not felt for many years. Though her roots here were deep and solid, she yearned for something she did not quite know; an ache, a wrongness, as though a part of her longed for what was no longer. 

Home was not here anymore. Home was with him— and wherever he was mattered not, so long as she was by his side.

_ Oh, my California! I never imagined I’d leave you _ , she thought, her heart swelling with emotion. Every breath she’d ever taken had been here, the land of so many dreams and promises. But he had shown her a bigger world, a world filled with more possibilities than she’d ever imagined. Pain, yes, and loss, but breathtaking beauty and hope, too. It could be theirs. 

Yet as soon as the thought entered her consciousness, so did those familiar, foreboding doubts. She would never have the strength to leave. She would be unhappy, terribly unhappy. The miners would not let her leave— who would take over the Polka?— she was making a terrible mistake— it was all a terrible mistake. Sudden anxiety twisted deep in her stomach, low and strange and fearful.

She turned to Verity, sitting just across from her on the porch, her head bent over delicate needlepoint work. Since he’d left, they’d become closer than ever, and they sat in comfortable quiet now, simply savoring the rich, calm morning in the company of each other. Before Minnie could say a word, Verity murmured something about needing sewing shears before setting her project down gently on the seat next to her. 

“I’ll just be a moment, dear…” she said before slipping into the house. Minnie nodded agreeably and turned back to the bright, sunny morning before her, looking up from her book just in time to see Nick coming up the steps. He smiled cheerfully at her, tossing a newspaper onto the seat next to his wife’s needlepoint and sitting down. He removed his hat, wiped his brow, and shook open the newspaper before Minnie interrupted his thoughts. 

“Nick, may I ask you something?” Her tone was unexpectedly tight and quiet, and she found her heart was racing, her fingers trembling in her lap, book forgotten once more. The enormity of what she was about to do was not lost on her; still, she continued, even as her confidence wavered. _It was only a step,_ she reassured herself. Nothing was decided yet. Everything was still only a question, still only a possibility. 

He looked up curiously, refolding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Of course. Is something the matter?”

“Nick,” she continued in a quiet voice, “if anything were to happen to me, or if I ever were to leave, would you take care of the Polka? Take over for me?

He was understandably taken aback by the unexpected question, and he paused for a second of contemplation. 

“Absolutely,” he said with conviction mere moments later . “In fact, I would be honored to. But why—why? Why would you need to— Has something happened with Johnson _? _ Have you heard news?” he asked suddenly in a hushed voice.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Nick; I was only thinking out loud.” She hoped he’d let the subject drop before Verity returned; Minnie knew that she would only fret and worry over her, when really nothing had been decided yet. Indeed, as tactful as ever, Nick merely raised an eyebrow, shooting Minnie a covert look as Verity bustled out of the house once more, hands full with her sewing scissors and pitcher of fresh lemonade.

“Oh, you’re back, dear,” she chirped pleasantly. On seeing their serious faces, she leaned in slightly. “News from town?” 

Minnie shook her head ever-so-slightly, and in an instant, Nick smiled at Verity. “Oh, nothing but the usual gossip, love. Heard they found a couple nuggets down by Slate Creek… the banker’s daughter’s gone and eloped with some boy from the San Andreas camp… oh, and I think the mail’s going to be a few days behind, the bridge on the Yuba River went out last week.” He looked to Minnie, and she nodded in agreement.

“Well, I’m sorry there’s no news about Dick, Minnie,” Verity added sympathetically, passing Minnie a glass of lemonade. She shrugged slightly; there was little to say. The ache of not knowing had settled deeply in every corner of her spirit, and though the truth in Verity’s words pained her, she would not let it wound her any further. A strange moment seemed to pass between the three of them. Her conversation with Nick still echoed in her mind, now mixing with Verity’s words about Johnson. Verity must have sensed her disquiet, for she smiled again and put her hand over Minnie’s. 

“My darling girl,” she said, “the whole world falls in love with time. These challenges might seem unfathomable now. But Minnie,” she said, pausing again and meeting Minnie’s eyes with an intensity unusual for the mild-mannered woman, “your heart will never misguide you. He will find his way home, as will you.” 

They sat quietly for a moment, each contemplating Verity’s words in their own ways. Nick was the first to rise. “If that’s not the truth…” he agreed cheerfully, though Minnie knew he was mulling over the words with a greater care than he showed outwardly. Verity squeezed Minnie’s hand as Nick stepped into the house. 

“Come, now, love. The chickens need feeding.” 

Minnie was more than happy to follow her into the sunny, golden morning. 

~~~

The day had started off normally enough; Vasquez and Linares were arguing again, this time over who to send on a raid of some small frontier fort to the east. Johnson half-listened as he combed his horse, an armed sentry watching him from several feet away, sitting under the shaded porch to escape the sun. 

Distant Joshua trees and scrubby ocotillo rustled in the same dry wind that carried the heated argument across the camp. 

“...well maybe if you didn’t have so many people doing  _ stupid  _ things, we’d have more men for actual jobs!” 

Vasquez’s reponse, haughty and condescending— “Stupid things like  _ what _ , Linares, pray tell?”

The voices fell quiet again, and Johnson merely rolled his eyes and went back to brushing his horse, his rough hands delicately combing the long, sleek mane and dark coat. But after only a moment, they were at it again, heated shouts echoing through the camp—

“You’re not in charge here, Linares!” Vasquez spat furiously

“Well, maybe I should be!” Linares retorted

_ They sound like arguing children, like little boys arguing over who gets the last sweet _ , he mused. As soon as the thought passed through his mind, there was a thud. He looked up just in time to see Vasquez pushing Linares out of the building, one hand on his gun, the other on Linares’s chest. Other bandits, sensing a fight, poured out of doorways and into the narrow courtyard. Despite the stifling heat, Johnson shivered.  _ Oh, this was bad, this was bad…  _

“Say that to me again, you  _ pinche pendejo.  _ Say it to all of your brothers.” Vasquez had him by the shirt collar, and now he pulled out his gun and held it under Linares’s chin, the shining metal biting into his flesh. 

Still, unafraid, Linares shoved him back. “Fine. I will. You—” he paused, leaning in— “are  _ unfit  _ to lead this gang.” The men around them shouted and jeered. Over the shouts, Johnson could hear Linares continuing to rail against Vasquez.

_ “ _ Immature— childish— and can only think of yourself! —all downhill since  _ you _ took over for Ramerrez—”

Vasquez fired his gun upwards twice, twin flashes and bangs echoing in the courtyard. White smoke curled into the air like a sinister fog, bringing silence with it once more.

“You are a  _ fool _ , Linares. Stand down now. You know the only way this can end.” His voice was chillingly calm, the threat clear as day. 

Instead of responding, Linares let his hand drift down to his hip, his revolver concealed at his fingertips. His answer, then, was settled.  _ So this was what he had meant, _ Johnson realized,  _ when he’d promised to ‘take care of’ Vasquez.  _

“Do you really want to do this, Linares? Just give in already like the coward you are,” Vasquez taunted, turning sideways and pulling rounds out of his holster. Linares didn’t respond, instead sliding bullets into his revolver before he looked up, meeting Vasquez’s gaze unflinchingly as he spoke. 

“Ten paces, count to three. One shot.” His voice was cold and decisive. 

After a moment, Vasquez nodded tightly. In the back of his mind, Johnson could not help but wonder if Vasquez had truly meant for it to go this far, if either man had. Either courage or stubbornness flowed through their veins; he assumed whiskey was mixed in there somewhere too. 

Silence hummed throughout the courtyard as they counted their paces, each gravelly step treacherous.  _ Was this truly happening? Did his eyes deceive him? _ Johnson looked towards Linares, hoping to meet the other man’s eye, but Linares stared forwards, his gaze steely and unreadable. The hot desert air was oppressive and heavy, weighing down on his lungs like a leaden blanket. Or maybe, maybe it was fear that stole his breath and quickened his pulse as the two men turned to face each other. 

Nothing moved; no one dared to even breathe. 

There was a flash and heart-stopping bangs, and the smell of gunpowder filled the spring air.

~~~

They hit gold. 

Finally, at long last, the bounty of the mighty earth had been uncovered, and nothing would ever be the same.

~~~

He’d forgotten how fast it all was.

There were twin shots and a thump; perhaps the slightest whisper of a moan reached his ears. Startled birds rustled and cawed on the roof. It was All done and over with before he could even flinch at the gunshots, before the hazy smoke could clear, mixing with tan dust rising from the courtyard—  _ dust, smoke, ash on a mountaintop, it was all the same— _

The opaque white smoke slowly began to lift, carried up and into the desert by the hot breeze that ruffled their collars and whistled through the dry, scrubby grass. Each man craned forward, murmuring to his neighbors. Johnson’s heart skipped a beat, fluttering in his chest as his eyes strained to see who still stood. 

It was not lost to him that the winner would decide his fate.

Like a great curtain raising into the skies, the answer to his question was suddenly clear. Somewhere in the crowd, he heard a gasp. 

Vasquez had fallen backwards onto the ground, his legs half-folded under him, clutching his shoulder with one arm, supporting himself with the other. Looking up at Linares, the victor, Linares who pointed his revolver at Vasquez’s head, Linares who had shot fast and aimed true, Linares who had beaten Vasquez at his own challenge and now commanded the gang. Blood trickled out around Vasquez’s fingers from his wounded shoulder, dripping wetly onto the dirt below. 

Johnson almost expected cheers from the onlookers, but there was little more than stoic silence as they filed back inside, leaving Linares to do as he liked to Vasquez. Men could be particularly cruel; in another duel he’d seen, the victor had drowned the wounded man in a water trough, then left him there until the horses would no longer drink out of it. 

Curious, Johnson watched Linares, waiting; it was the truest test of a man’s character. Linares lowered his still burning-hot gun carefully, moving as if in a dream. After a silent moment, he stepped towards Vasquez and simply said, “Go. Get out of here.” 

Vasquez scrambled to his feet as best he could, his right shoulder bloody and his arm hanging limp. Oh, they were twins now, Vasquez and he, twins marked in the cruelest way possible.  _ Two bullets to set him free— one for his past, one for his future, _ he thought somewhere in the back of his consciousness. Vasquez gave Johnson one final glare and turned away in defeat, sulking like a scolded dog, his hard face thrown into shadow by the slowly sinking sun. 

All three men stood in silence for a brief moment; Johnson let out a long, slow breath. So this was it, then. They had won, and it was done. He turned to Linares, waiting for the man’s blessing. Under the grime and worry, Linares was not so old, at least several years younger than Johnson. Still searching for his place, still full of life, just as Johnson had once been. Linares smiled at him, a worn, weary smile, before opening his mouth to speak.

“Jo _ — _ ”

A sudden  _ crack _ echoed across the courtyard, loud and sharp— 

A single, choked syllable— 

Linares’s crooked, boyish smile fell into a grimace, a gasp frozen on a dying man’s face as the center of his shirt blossomed from off-white to vivid, visceral red. He dropped to his knees, and then onto the dusty ground. 

Men flooded into the courtyard after hearing another gunshot, yelling. From the corner of his eye, a blur of motion— someone socked Vasquez in the face, the impact strangely quiet after that fatal, thunderous gunshot. He fell to the ground and did not move anymore, a faintly smoking gun still held limply in his left hand. 

Johnson was pulled back to his childhood, playing with his brothers— cowboys and Indians, sheriff and robbers. How they’d pantomime their invisible weapons, shooting unseen bows and finger pistols at each other as they scampered around camp. When they were hit, they’d fall in dramatic, arching slow motion, giggling and yelling at each other in rapid Spanish, grabbing their chests as they lay twitching in the dirt before going limp, maybe sticking out a tongue for extra excitement. 

It was all too real now. In the blink of an eye, everything could change forever. 

Without thinking, perhaps guided by some unseen force, he found himself kneeling on the street—  _ pebbles biting at his knees, warmth creeping up his trousers, until he realized with a sharp, horrified gasp it was blood, dark blood, shining and hot, soaking the dark fabric through _ — 

Is this how she’d felt, when she’d knelt by his side? That same sense of fear and hopelessness? His blood on her hands, on her face, on her lips? But there was no golden candlelight here, no promise of any tomorrows. Nothing but shadows and pain, yelling and the smell of gunpowder... 

Linares opened his hazy eyes again, his gaze dreamy and unfocused. Someone gave him a shot of whiskey that he couldn’t quite swallow, clear amber mixing with the scarlet blood clinging to the stubble on his chin. 

His mouth opened and closed, gasping, words dying unborn on his lips as he struggled to speak.

“Johnson,” he finally rasped, his voice a bloody whisper, and Johnson leaned over his ruined chest to hear the faint words. “Go back to her—  _ go home _ . Promise me this.”

“I promise.” Hot, sudden tears burned in his eyes. Everything he’d hoped, everything he’d spent long nights dreaming about— it was in the palm of his hands now, but at the cruelest cost. There was no price more severe than the loss of a friend. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and he saw, under the haze of pain, a deep sadness, a longing for what never was, could never be...

Linares smiled faintly and motioned for another shot of whiskey. 

He was dead before it touched his lips. 

~~~

_ Gold.  _

The impossible dream of so many, finally made real. It was all at once that simple and so much more. 

She’d been sitting behind the bar, Nick at her side, counting through piles of coins and yellowing bills, a balance-book before her, when they’d heard the shouts. Distant, at first, and not unusual; she’d ignored them at first. 

“Nine-sixty,” Nick said, adding a stack of coins to her own as she wrote down the figure. After a moment, he raised an eyebrow. “You hear that?” 

She nodded. “A fight?” he added, barely-masked boyish excitement in his eyes. 

With a shrug, she turned back to her little notebook, adding and subtracting down the rows. 

But the shouts only continued, louder and more insistent, closer and closer to the Polka. She stood, her curiosity and worry getting the best of her. “Nick, help me clear the counter— we should get this all back in the drawer. Quickly. Just in case…” She felt for her rifle under the bar counter.  _ Just in case _ .

He nodded, and they piled the bills and coins back into the slender drawer in the counter. She’d only shut the drawer when the doors of the Polka flew open and a flood of miners poured in, eyes sparkling, faces flushed, a million frenzied shouts mixing into an overwhelming babble.

“The mines—” “—hours of work—” “—and I shouted, and Sonora came over—” “Oh, Minnie! We’ve finally—” 

The blessed words finally hit her ears.

“ _ Gold! _ ” “—gold, we’ve hit gold!” 

Her heart pounded, her mind reeling with shock, refusing to believe what the jubilant, frenzied group in front of her was trying to say. 

Hands— pushing, grabbing, eager— “Here it is!” they shouted, eager as proud schoolboys. 

And indeed, there it was: a glittering golden nugget, brilliant and untarnished by the earth, yellow as the rich afternoon sunlight that poured through the windows of the Polka. It was as large as a chicken's egg, larger, even, and perfect in every way. Every eye in the room followed it, full of awe, wonder, envy. It was, in the palm of a hand, more gold than anyone in the room had ever seen. 

She could not bring herself to say anything. She could not take her eyes off of the gleaming gold and all the promise it held. In that moment all she knew was that nothing would ever be the same. 

It was Nick who spoke first. 

“Whiskey!” he shouted, and a deafening roar of cheers rose from the men, already drunk on success and excitement. Yes, Whiskey would flow freely that night, her head buzzing with noise and excitement and adrenaline. It seemed like she would never be done pouring drinks, smiling and laughing until her ribs hurt. Nick stood on the bar, passing bottles up to the crowded loft, and she’d swatted playfully at his legs with a towel, laughing while yelling for him to _ get down from there _ !

The night was dark and deep when she and Nick finally left the Polka together, her feet aching but her eyes bright with pride and accomplishment. They secured the twin doors of the saloon as men staggered off to their bunks, whiskey and confidence pulsing through their blood. Oh, yes, they’d all wake in a few hours with pounding headaches and fuzzy memories of that night, but the revelry and celebration had been well-earned. For so many hours spent under the harsh sun, dirt forever staining their rough hands, for all of the pain and hope that the men had poured into these mines, it seemed only just that some little reward eventually befell them. If not riches for all, it was at least a blessed promise that their trials weren’t for naught. 

Something nagged at the back of her mind as she washed her face and hands back at Nick and Verity’s house, a fleeting doubt she could not name. But giddiness and sleep clouded her thoughts, and she pushed any darkness aside as she knelt next to her cot, thanking Him for all he had delivered to her and the humble miners. 

Her dreams were as fragmented and exited as the day had been, dreams of gold and gunpowder and him. She’d shown him the gold, mountains of it piled up in the center of the Polka. He’d sworn no-one would dare touch it, and she’d smiled easily at his charming, reassuring confidence. But he had left her, and she was alone again. Oh, where had he gone? When would he come back? There was too much gold for her to watch, more than she’d ever imagined, and though she called for him, no response came. She clutched her rifle, holding it close to her chest, the only promise of security she had left. A boot sole creaked outside the doors of the Polka, and she was torn between hope and fear— had he returned to her at last? Or did a bandit lurk outside, dangerous and unforgiving?

The doors creaked open and she woke with a start to Verity’s cheerful, round face peering into her narrow, sunlit room. 

Minnie sat up quickly, brushing away the damp hair that clung to her flushed neck. She took a deep breath. 

“Morning, love,” Verity said warmly. “Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.” Without pausing she continued, rushing with excitement. “Nick and I are going— there’s a wagon heading up Coloma— to get supplies for the Polka and such, since so many people will be coming now—” She broke off, breathless. “Oh, Minnie, isn’t it all so exciting?” 

Minnie nodded, giving Verity a small smile. 

“Anyway, dear, didn’t mean to disturb you; it’s still rather early and I’m certain you’re tired after last night. Nick told me to assure you that he’ll take care of everything for the Polka— buying anything you’ll need,” she finished quickly. 

“Thank you, Verity, and please do tell Nick ‘thank you’ from me as well.”

Verity smiled. “Of course, Minnie, don’t think twice about it. You’d best get some rest; there’s talk of a party tonight at the Polka for the whole town, to celebrate. With your permission, of course,” she added in good humor. 

Minnie laughed lightly. “Oh, how could I say no to such a convincing proposal?” She smiled. “I’ll see you this evening, Verity. Safe travels.”

With a quick thank-you-love, Verity departed, and Minnie allowed herself to lay back down. She was never one to tarry much, believing quite sensibly that idle hands made for the devil’s tools. But Verity was right— it was still so early, and she had slept quite poorly, and she was sure to be up late again that night. Certainly just a moment’s rest could not hurt her. The morning was soft and young still, the grass damp with dew and the sky pastel with dawn’s fresh glow, diffuse against the pale, distant clouds. Her eyes were heavy and the blankets were so warm and inviting...

~~~

He left early the following morning, just as pale dawn began to color the vast skies above. There was nothing for him here any longer. 

He was already in his saddle when someone moved from the long, early-morning shadows of the porch circling the old building, stepping forward into the low sunlight: Riley. 

From his horse, Johnson and the older man were nearly eye level with each other. He had a fleeting, curious sensation that Riley was about to salute him. Instead, he nodded once, respectfully. His dark eyes met Johnson’s.

After a moment Johnson put his black hat on, steered his horse around, and began the long journey back north.

~~~

She woke with a content sigh some time later. It was not quite midmorning. The weather had changed: low, heavy clouds covered the previously-clear sky, and the day seemed to promise rain. 

Swinging her legs out of bed, she stood and stretched, the wooden floor cool against her bare feet. Alone in the house and with few plans for the day, she took time to care for herself, time that she had not given in many weeks. The ceramic pitcher in the corner was full of water, and she washed her face carefully, feeling the pleasantly cool water against her warm skin as she scrubbed her face clean, removing any traces of discontent and worry from the long night and starting the day anew. 

Indeed, it was a new dawn in many ways. The gold— the gold! Truly nothing would be the same. Exciting and scary all at once, her heart fluttered with joy and fear, pride and hope— and something else, that same unnameable feeling she’d brushed away last night. A feeling of accomplishing an impossible dream, and feeling a little hollow and lost inside after for some reason, a reason she did not quite know. 

_ He would know _ , she thought to herself. He always seemed to, even from their first meeting on the road and the first night at the Polka. Just from a touch, a breath, a look— he could always read her, knowing her hopes and worries perhaps better than she knew them herself. She tied her hair back, feeling quite tidy in her usual blouse, vest, and riding skirt; though she was ready to start the day, something in her mind compelled her to stay just a moment longer.

Her thoughts took a swooping, dark turn. Ramerrez seemed to fill the empty room around her, silent and dark and lurking. The specter of gold would loom here forever, and wherever it was, blood surely followed. They would never truly be cleansed of the past, not here. Ramerrez would haunt them. The gang would haunt them. The pain would haunt them. Even the gold itself, the beautiful, precious, enchanting gold, was a reminder of the turbulence around them, a storm from which shelter could not be sought.

The men called it a sickness on those dark, wet, miserable nights. A sickness. Once you caught it, it was a fever, dancing before your eyes, restless and irresistable. More than one had worked himself to death for the gold.  _ A sickness _ , she thought,  _ a sickness, a sickness _ , and she knew their destiny lay elsewhere, away from the mountains, away from the mines and the Polka and the life she had lived for many years. She was bigger than her doubts, stronger than her fears. There were other golden skies that they would someday call home, together, somewhere in another land. 

She sank back down, clutching the low post of her bedframe, gazing out the window at those distant skies over the horizon. The notion was not new by any means; even before he had returned to face the gang, she had idly pondered around the idea of leaving. Surely they could not live in the loft of the Polka forever. Yet then, she had hesitated, just as she hesitated still. 

But if she truly searched herself... The idea had been there for many months, just as long as she’d known him. That sunny morning on the road from Monterey, she had been tempted, just for a moment, to stay with him, outrageous as it was. There was something about his demeanor, how easygoing and kind and sweet he had been, that had totally disarmed her. The girl who had never been in love was suddenly swept off her feet, and for the first time, she had considered another path, a new life away from her cabin and the Sierras.  _ Stay and pick some blackberries with me. _

She had returned to that cabin and those mountains, but something in her heart was forever changed, though she realized it only now. 

And all those months later, the night he had come to the Polka, and back to her cabin— he had said  _ I love you _ just after he’d kissed her, a precious moment she had replayed in her mind time and time again in the lonely nights since he’d left. But she had not said it back then, nor when they had stepped into the swirling snow together when she had begged him to stay the night, for she was still uncertain then, frightened by the newness of the feelings deep within her, as desperately in love as she was. 

It was not until a shot had rung out in the cold, snowy night that she had found the strength to say those precious, powerful words— a thud at her door, and she’d taken him into her arms, kneeling down, panic and desperation gripping her throat, and the words had bubbled up before she knew what was even saying, spoken from deep within her heart—

“Stay, I love you, stay— you're the first man I ever kissed!” 

—and she hoped it was enough to save him.

She’d helped him into the loft, her muscles trembling, his blood on her fingers, her heart pounding, and begged him, begged him, begged him to live for her, because she loved him, yes, she loved him.

“Hide now,” she’d whispered, “and then we'll go far, far away—” She’d watched as his huddled figure was slowly swallowed by the darkness of the loft. One more time— “ _ I love you! _ ” she’d cried, and prayed it would not be for the last time. 

Between desperate kisses and ragged, panicked breaths— a promise, built into the very core their love.  _ We’ll go far, far away together. _ The truth was as plain and certain as the rising day before her. 

She carried all these thoughts and many more with her as she made her way at last to the Polka. The town was unusually quiet. Burgeoning clouds rolled and churned across the sky quickly and distant thunder rumbled. 

Rain began to fall as she neared the Polka, though only a gentle mist at first. She quickened her step, dashing under its wide, welcoming porch, wiping the dampness from her cheeks and forehead with her sleeve as she entered her saloon. 

It was quiet inside, dry and dark, and she set to work lighting the wall lamps and lanterns that illuminated the vast interior. 

She’d bought the saloon years before, when the gold was little more than a dream. The previous owner had charged her next to nothing for it, spit into the dirt, and cursed the barren earth beneath their feet. For the next few months, the Polka became her very life: like a newborn child, it needed constant care, always seeming to have a leaky roof or a jammed door or pigeons roosting in its high rafters. But she’d worked until her hands grew rough and her arms strong, and she’d refused to give up, refused to believe that the investment of everything she had had been a waste, refused to abandon the little saloon she’d named the Polka. 

And slowly, slowly things had gotten better. The Polka was no longer a wayside stop, visited only rarely by passing travellers; miners came, and they stayed. With the miners came grocers, an inn, a church— each year something new— and from her cabin, high on the mountain she called her own, she watched the world form before her.

A gentle rain pattered on the wooden shingles of the building. She went to the east windows and opened them, letting the fresh air rush in, drawing out the odors of alcohol, tobacco and smoke, and replacing them with the clean scent of rain. 

She set to work cleaning. First the counter where she had spent so many hours, wiped down with care, removing rings from frosted glasses and flecks of tobacco and mine dust, before being polished with oil, rubbed to a smooth shine. She repeated the process at each table, swiping crumbs and dirt onto the floors— she would sweep last— before wiping and oiling the wood.

Behind the bar, she removed each of the dozens of bottles, wiping dust from the smooth glass and cleaning the shelves below. She brushed cobwebs from the rafters and dead moths from beneath the lanterns. Old ads and wanted posters, many yellowed with age, were removed and set aside. A familiar word caught her eye, and her gut twisted suddenly with emotion. It stared at her, challenging her. How had she missed it before? 

_ WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE: THE BANDIT RAMERREZ, $10,000 REWARD, GOLD COINS. _

She balled up the paper and tossed it away from her. 

The rain fell harder as she went upstairs to the loft. Her eyes lingered on the twin bannisters of a lighter wood, not quite matching their counterparts. Just as she bore scars of when bandits had attacked all those years ago, when the world had been a lawless place, so did the Polka; these, here, were the bannisters that had been splintered by their bullets, and here were the steps where she had bled. A miner who had once been a woodworker had made replacements of excellent craftsmanship and skill, all for no charge. Though they were technically flawless, the scars still remained. 

Here in the loft were the tables where men would play baccarat, poker, faro, and where she and Johnson had sat on that first, precious night after they had danced, when he’d spun her around and held her hands in his, and where they had slept when her cabin had burned to ash, her head on his chest, his arms around her, holding her to him. The loft, she’d been told years ago, had been designed for the barkeep and his family to live in; she had rejected that, oddly repulsed by the idea, and elected to live by herself in her lovely little cabin. The rain was loud and fast now, beating steadily on the shingles of the roof just above her head as she cleaned the tables, arranged the chairs, and made sure they had plenty of cards on hand. 

Satisfied with her work, she moved to turn out the lamps, giving the room a final appraisal before moving on. As she stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the main room, she found herself unexpectedly and suddenly seized with feeling: pride, with just a hint of loss. 

She had built this all herself. The Polka was a testament to many years of living, many hundreds of hours of love and work and life. An almost maternal pride swelled in her chest, so full of emotion she felt she might burst. Besides the very bones of the building, nearly everything here had been her work alone: a tapestry of her whole life here in the Cloudy Mountains, her home.

There was the moose, a gift from a wealthy, unrelenting, and ultimately unsuccessful suitor; she’d wanted to remove it from sight as soon as it entered her possession, but ultimately the men had found it endearing. Someone had painted “POLKA” underneath the giant, mounted moose head, and it had found its way up to the balcony, where it had stayed for years, becoming strangely adored, and eventually the unofficial symbol of the establishment. A tinny wall piano nestled in the corner of the balcony, waiting to be played by anyone who could carry a tune. 

She ran her hand down the stair rails as she went down the steps, the wood worn smooth from the palms of many men. Spinning around the floor, she took in the room with new eyes. Twin flags of California and the United States hung over pictures and postcards telling the histories of many lives, tacked up on the wall behind the bar. She knew each of their names, each of their stories, as though they were pictures in a family album, her brothers. Her rocking chair, where she’d spent so many wintery afternoons and Sunday mornings, rested comfortably in its usual corner. Old bottles full of dried wildflowers dotted the shelves, picked in earnest from the meadows around town. 

_ I am lived in, and I am loved _ , the room seemed to sigh.  _ Life happens within my walls _ . Was she truly ready? Ready to leave this all behind? To leave her family, her friends, and the only land she’d ever known? 

Though she knew the answer in her heart, there was a certain sadness carried in her soul nonetheless as she swept, as though she was a mother, brushing a daughter’s hair on the morning of her wedding. A slow and lingering goodbye, a parting of ways; nothing like the brutal pains of sudden separation between her and Johnson, or the eager newness she had worn when she had left Soledad as a young woman. 

She finished sweeping and went to shut the windows. Turning slowly, she stepped against the doors, taking the room in all of its glory: polished, gleaming, ready to be used, lived in, loved. Her pride, her joy, her life’s work. Her Polka. 

~~~

A deep, searing anger burned behind his eyes, white as the California sun, blinding and bitter. His heart ached and he wanted to run, to scream, to fight the universe, impossibly large and uncaring as it was, though he knew that such sentiments were foolish, childish, stupid. Nothing good ever came without some great cost, some terrible price to pay in exchange. He felt as though some cruel god was testing him, trying him, always pushing just a little harder to see how much he could stand to lose. 

He’d had his family, and that had been ripped from him with his father’s death; he’d had her and lost her once already. He’d paid for his time at her side with a bullet, with the sickening guilt of the fire, and with the pain of leaving her once more. Linares had taken a fatal shot for him and the dream they both held dear. 

The desert around him was barren and lonesome, the sky desolate and empty. He longed for the lush greens and browns of the Sierras, for the sun on her golden hair, for her quiet laughter as they did chores each morning, for her smile and her eyes and her heart. She was worth every drop of blood lost, every tear shed, every ounce of sweat and grit. But in a life marred by loss, violence and deceit, how much more could a man stand to take? 

~~~

They held the dance that evening, after the miners returned for the day. The Polka was fuller than she’d ever seen it, and it seemed everyone in their little town came that night. She laughed and danced to the folk songs, the floor of the saloon thundering with the rhythmic thumping of boots as everyone stomped and clapped to the music. Each beat was a song in her head, a waltz of  _ good-good-bye good-good-bye good-good-bye _ . 

She’d danced with more miners than she could count, each smiling face blending into the next. Nick was never one to dance, but she managed to pull him out for one song, carefully remembering all the steps Johnson had taught her before both her and Nick burst into laughter and she’d handed him back over to Verity. Verity, too, had taken her out, and they’d giggled as Minnie, being much taller, had tried to lead; breathless from laughter, she and Verity stumbled around the crowded room together, stepping on quite nearly everyone in the room’s toes before sitting back down, nearly doubled over from laughing so fiercely, tears in their eyes like giggling schoolgirls once more, all the time wishing he was there with her. 

_ How bittersweet it is, _ she reflected,  _ that I should be so happy, and that he should not be at my side. _ She tucked the thought deep within her heart and smiled once more as Joe approached her, beaming and offering his broad hands to dance again. 

She was already at the Polka when Nick arrived the next afternoon. It was another cool day; she remembered her mother remarking long ago that spring often came in like a lamb and went out like a lion— at first green and lush, promising warmth and sunshine, before the weather would quickly turn again, reminding them exactly why the Cloudy Mountains were named as they were. 

Normally she and Nick would trade off, one opening the bar and the other closing for the night, but she’d come early that afternoon to speak with him. Though she’d brought a book, it lay unread at her side as her fingers twisted and pulled nervously at her skirt. The enormity of what she was about to do was not lost on her, and despite her resolve, anxiety clawed at her throat as she sat and waited.

When finally she heard the back door of the bar swing open, she tried both to inhale with anticipation and exhale with relief and ended up merely coughing awkwardly instead. 

“Who’s there?” Nick's alarmed voice echoed from behind her, and she turned just as he entered the bar. 

“Oh, it's you,” he said with relief. “I was worried— well, you know, with all the gold here and such— but it’s only you,” he added. He paused, perhaps waiting for Minnie to explain herself but unwilling to ask directly. 

Another beat of silence passed before Minnie took a deep breath again. “Nick, we should talk,” she said, her voice tense. 

He nodded slowly, his eyes keen behind their spectacles.

“I’ll, um, I’ll help you get things ready for tonight, and then I can explain what I’ve been thinking,” she stammered. It was strange to be so flustered around Nick, for they were old friends. But her mind was spinning, her heart beating a doubletime march in her chest. 

They took down chairs off the tables and opened the bar together, working side by side. When they finished, she took a seat and gestured for Nick to follow suit.

“Nick,” she started, “do you remember our conversation several days ago? When you came back from town, and Verity and I were on the porch?”

He nodded, paused, and nodded again a moment later as realization and comprehension spread across his face. “Ohhh,” he sighed, letting out a slow breath; he did not seem surprised. “You won’t stay? Even after the gold?” he asked.

She looked up, and saw he already knew the answer; the sadness in his eyes told her the truth.

“Does your offer to take over here still stand?” she asked softly. 

Nick scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Of course, Minnie. As I said, it would be my honor and delight to look after the Polka.” He blinked several times, and Minnie thought he might begin to cry. 

“Of course I will, Minnie,” he repeated, his voice tight. “Of course I will.”

They sat quietly for a moment; she looked around the room and sighed, smelling the ever-present sweetness of tobacco, the sharp smokiness of whiskey, and the familiar, comfortable smell of pine. 

“When?” he asked, and the simple word hung in the air as she searched for the right words to answer him with.

“Soon,” she said finally, and shrugged slightly. “When he comes back. I know Rance will— he’ll probably— well, you know,” she admitted.

“Cause trouble?” Nick suggested, and she nodded. 

“But he’ll listen to me, and we’ll leave peacefully. I know he will.” _ Or at least she hoped. _

If Nick thought otherwise, he didn’t let her see, instead smiling kindly. Abruptly, however, the smile froze on his face, and she looked at him with concern. 

“Does Verity know?” 

Minnie sighed again, shaking her head. “You’re the only one,” she responded. 

He looked at her seriously. “Minnie, you should tell her. She cares for you very deeply.” 

She turned away, cheeks reddening. “I know.” 

It would be the hardest part of leaving, telling the woman who had grown to be like a sister to her that they would likely never meet again. Sudden sadness swept through her, and she brought a hand to her face, wiping away the tears that gathered in her eyes. Nick patted her arm gently. 

“Thank you, Nick, thank you,” she whispered. 

After a minute, they stood up and shook hands; suddenly, Minnie pulled Nick into a tight hug. He froze for a second before reciprocating, patting her back gently. 

“Oh, Nick,” she said softly as they separated, “I never imagined my life would be anywhere but here, with you, and Verity, and all of the boys, even Rance. But sometimes— sometimes life just—” For the first time, her voice broke off. 

Nick smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling, though she could still see the sadness within. “You love him,” he said, and she was not sure if it was a question or a statement. 

“I love him,” she repeated adamantly, though confused where the conversation was going. 

"And he loves you,” Nick continued. 

"Yes," she responded, "more than anything."

“Then this is the right thing to do. Whenever you’re ready to go, I will be here for you, and I will love the Polka just as you do.”

She smiled finally, his reassurance melting some of the ice that had frosted over her heart in the past weeks, even as she recognized the bittersweet sentiment behind the promise. “That means the world and more to me, Nick. I can never thank you enough.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the doors swing open; the first group of miners was just getting out of the mines for the day. “Oh, here comes Rance. Hush,” she added hurriedly, standing up. Nick bustled away, finding some way to make himself useful, as always. She waved Rance over, and a moment later he met her at the bar.

“Rance,” she said coolly, “please organise the men into groups, patrols, something. Have the Polka and the gold guarded at all times.”

He curled his lip, and she braced herself for some acrid retort, some jibe about Johnson and bandits. But he hesitated, and after some thought, he merely grunted. Within the hour it was done. 

The next morning, she finally brought about her plan to Verity. Verity had given her tearful blessing before embracing Minnie and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You will always have a home here, my dear," she’d whispered. They had stood in the quiet kitchen for some time after, sharing stories, memories, laughter and tears, knowing that it would never be quite enough to make up for a lifetime apart. 

On the surface, it seemed that very little had really changed in the town. Oh, yes, new faces poured in every day, each fighting for their share of the riches, but the Polka was full and gay each night, and she and Nick ran a tight ship. To her relief, Rance seemed to have put away their mutual afflictions and served with authority and a fair hand. Their world had not changed ineffably; instead, it had simply become  _ more _ of what it was: exhilarating, maybe a little dangerous, but tightly-knit nonetheless. Everything seemed to be taking its place, pieces finally falling together as they were meant to. 

Yet as days came and went with breathtaking speed, that familiar fear crept back into her heart. Between sharp whispers at the Polka that stopped when she walked by, and people on the street looking at her strangely when they thought she wouldn’t see, she knew something was changing, quiet ripples moving through the air. Something that involved him. She could sense it, like the moment just before rain. It was quiet, and there was a storm coming. 

One particularly rowdy evening, she’d stepped out onto the porch of the Polka for a minute of air. Tracing faint stars, her eyes searched the skies before falling on the dark forms of Rance and Ashby just down the street, silhouetted against the blue-violet night. Over them towered the dark, arching skeleton of the old gallows. A relic of the hard times years ago, it had grown decrypt and seemingly forgotten. In all her time living at the camp, she had never seen it used. 

Down the street, a dark, sweeping arm reached out, pointing up, up, up— 

Deeply unsettled, she shuddered and turned back inside before she could see any more, and could not bring herself to return back outside for the rest of the night. 

As Nick was leaving, she’d confided to him what she’d seen that evening. 

“They wouldn’t dare, Minnie,” he reassured her. “No man’s been hung here in more than a decade… they wouldn’t dare.” 

But the quickly-concealed fear in his eyes told another story, a story with no happy ending, only death. 

~~~

The road home was long and unkind, and he knew not what was in store for him when he returned. He had been gone a long, long time, too long.

He stopped for an evening in a tiny roadside inn, just for a night, aching for a warm meal and a place to rest. His head thundered with the many thoughts of the past days, and the many wars he’d seen. In just nearly a year, so much had happened. A year since his father had died, since he had become Ramerrez.

In returning to the gang he had sought, if not revenge, at least peace. Had he found it? He was free. Yet Linares haunted him even as he freed him, the man’s sudden, violent passing and dying words persistent in Johnson’s memory. Death had not seemed so real to him before, even when his father died, even when he’d believed he was about to die. It ached in his bones like the cold, and he was an old man desperate for warmth, heavy and tired and despairing. 

Yes, he was tired, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of the taste of metallic blood and dirty smoke on his lips. He wanted to be done, give in; though he had won a battle, the war was not over yet, not nearly. In his heart, he feared Minnie might never forgive him for all the hurt he had caused. Still, he prayed to whatever God would listen that she would be there when he returned. 

The bartender, after serving him his whiskey-and-water, had asked of his travels. 

“Just passing through,” he’d said, for how could he ever explain it all?  _ Oh, thanks for asking, I’m the son of a famous bandit but I fell in love and I’m just on my way back from severing all ties with the gang in order to live the rest of my life in peace, assuming her friends don’t hang me first. Pleasant weather we’ve been having here, though!  _ Despite the sorrow he carried, he smiled into his whiskey, the bittersweet pain mixing with a feeling that might have been hope. 

He had come this far. He had come this far, and to give up now would be to throw away all he had gained already, and all that had been sacrificed for him. If he succeeded, just one more task, then he would see her again, he realized. He hoped. And that hope, though small and perilous, was enough. Buoyant in his chest, it lifted him up from the depression and dread that filled him. Rare, glittering, maybe even golden, he held onto that precious hope, letting it kindle his heart once more, drawing from it the strength and courage to carry on.

It seemed just a little easier to smile now, with the past behind him. But deep inside, he knew the hardest challenge lay ahead. 

He was no fool. Johnson did not doubt for an instant that there was a bounty on his head once more, that Rance and that Ashby fellow had readily seized their chance to make him again what he’d worked so hard to leave behind. But he would have to play their game, for he knew words would be useless then; Rance was not a man who took kindly to pleas for mercy. He could only hope that he could stall, stealing enough time for her to come for him and save him once more.  _ And should anything go wrong— _

A quiet realization settled uneasily in his mind: he might die without ever seeing her again. __

Yes, he was unafraid of death. But Minnie, oh Minnie— it would crush her. She would never love again. __

_She mustn’t know_ , he realized. She mustn’t ever know, should he be sentenced to die. For while she had the power to change the hearts of all of her boys, and perhaps even Rance, for her to learn afterwards that they had each had a part in his death— the knowledge would simply break her. Every single person ever dear to her, either dead or a killer— 

No, he would not plead for his life. He would plead for hers. He might have been a condemned man, by God and the whole damn world, but he would never drag her down with him.

Hard as it was to accept, he stood by his vow, finding strength in the power his resolution held. He left the inn early the next morning, setting off into the evergreen forest once more, sticky pine sap dotting the packed dirt trail. He was completely alone, cut off from all communication— no saloon gossip, no network of the gang’s spies, nothing but the beat of his horse’s hooves on the long road home. He had only himself. 

The travel was slow, the hours long and weary, but there was nothing more rewarding and wistful than when he found himself riding on familiar trails once more. At first, he’d thought it déjà vu, but no: this was the very path he’d taken that first night he’d come to the Polka. He’d expected then to stay a night, maybe even less if they could pull the job off well. Who could have known that he would once again ride the same trails, all these months later, a single word on his lips:  _ home, home, home _ . 

He set up his little camp each night moving just a little closer, never staying in one spot for long. To be so heartachingly close to her, and yet unable to see her still, unable to speak to her, to let her know that he was alive, and that he loved her — it was tortuous. But he knew that this was the only way, slowly. It would have been madness, he told himself, to have simply strolled back into the Polka once more. Perhaps this was his purgatory for all the pain he had caused: trapped, so close, and yet so far. 

He watched the same brilliant splay of stars that he'd watched so many times before in his life on the road, a million twinkling diamonds. Diamonds and gold and silver and stars— he’d give it all up, give everything he had, time and time again, to be with her. 

Just as he’d waited for the bandits to come for him, he waited now for Rance and the others. Had it really only been a month? It had felt so much longer. 

He waited for the crunch of boots on gravel and the shouts of the men. He waited for her.

_ Light of his life, flower of his heart.  _

~~~

She knew not how she knew, only that she did. Maybe the spring breeze had carried shouts, whispers, and secrets to her ears— maybe it was his heart calling out to hers— but it pressed on her soul, rousing her from sleep and into tense, breathless lucidity in an instant. 

It was time. 

With her rifle in her hand and her pistol cool against her racing heart, she knew her only choice. Her mind was clear, hope and fear soaring and crashing together in her chest like the mountain peaks all around.

The delicate, sweet scent of blooming blackberry hung in the air, and the infinite promise of a golden new day unfurled before her. 

She ran down the dusty street to meet her fate. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If ANYONE makes it to this point leave me a comment and I'll love you forever


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